


Love Among the Ruins

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Divine Cassandra Pentaghast, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Gift Fic, Healing, Hurt Comfort Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Pining, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-01 15:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18802936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: "Losing another Divine would be... unacceptable."





	Love Among the Ruins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mytha/gifts).



Even in her addled state, Cassandra can tell that Vivienne is angry.

Half-carried, half-dragged from the Deep Roads, through mirrors, she is left in what was most likely a graceless pile on the ground, while the others whisper strategy and decisions. Her ears are still ringing, and her chest canes with every breath. Then the Inquisitor and Dorian are gone, back through the Eluvian.

This is not the Crossroads. Above, the sky is high, a deepening blue, and against her cheek, grass and dirt. Close by, she can hear the sound of little waves lapping against a shore. 

Somewhere nearby Vivienne mutters, " _You fool_ ," and since everyone else is gone, Cassandra is left to conclude it was meant for her.

The eerie sensation of magic skittering over her skin makes her own power rise inside of her, the instinct to nullify and neutralize, but sleep tugs at her, pulling her under before any of it can be realized. She dreams of the Grand Cathedral, where the Maker seems closer than anywhere else, as if the very stones carry a divine presence...

"You're awake," Vivienne says when Cassandra blinks up at the twilight sky. She does not sound particularly impressed by this. 

Vivienne's hands are pressed to her sternum, the same magic she felt before losing consciousness pouring into her chest, which seems too full, sharp pressure constricting every strained breath.

No matter. "I must go after him."

When her command is wilfully ignored, Cassandra pushes Vivienne's hands away and sits up, the movement wringing a wheezing groan out of her, ribcage throbbing.

"By all means, Your Perfection, try it," Vivienne says, sitting back and crossing her arms.

Since her coronation, Vivienne uses her honorifics with utmost precision, to convey anything from fondness to insult. This is most definitely the latter. 

"I'm fine," Cassandra says in a breathless rasp, but loathe as she is to admit it, the idea of standing seems more than she can manage.

"Good to know you've lost all your sense." Her words are clipped, gaze hard, as if she is thinking of a great many insults but choosing to keep them inside. "The Inquisitor is returning to the Winter Palace to inform the others about the Qunari. He is in no immediate danger. You, however, are held together with nothing but good intentions."

Under her glare, Cassandra lies back down.

The Inquisitor left with only Dorian for company, which is by far more worrying than a few broken ribs. Thick as thieves, their friendship always was of a kind that seemed to impair their respective judgments, and there is no telling what sort of trouble the two of them might get into on their own. Whatever injury she may suffer, it will be nothing compared to Josephine's _disappointment_ if the Inquisitor is brought home with a scratch on his head.

"Where are we?" she wonders aloud, resigning herself to her situation. She is obviously incapacitated — surely such things will be taken into account.

"By the elven ruins on the mountain. You were in no _state_ to be carried the whole way back."

"Am I dying then?"

"Do not insult me."

She becomes aware of it again: Vivienne's mood. She is displeased. Well, Cassandra is not particularly happy with how things have turned out either, but she is the one who ended up on the wrong side of the Qunari, exploding powder and falling rocks, not Vivienne. 

What was it Vivienne said before the Inquisitor interrupted them at the Winter Palace to invite them on an excursion through the Eluvian?

_This does not concern the Chantry._

By which she meant, it does not concern Cassandra. Which in turn meant, I am the Grand Enchanter and no matter who sits on the Sunburst Throne, the Circles are mine.

They are hers, and Cassandra is not fool enough to think she would know better than Vivienne on that score. If ever there was one thing she promised herself when she took on this duty it was to listen and think before she leapt, and to never let her temper make decisions for her. 

In this case, listening meant watching Vivienne brush the matter aside, but there was no anger to it, surely, only a simple dismissal. What sort of transgression has Cassandra made since, to earn her wrath?

Cushioned a _gaatlock_ explosion and subsequent cave-in with her ribs, probably. No doubt inconvenient for everyone involved.

"If you're finished attempting to ruin my work," Vivienne says tartly, "I wasn't done."

Cassandra sighs, the act making her chest ache. "What's wrong with me?"

"Would you like me to provide a list?" Without waiting for a reply, she continues, "This is a poor time to get yourself killed."

As always when faced with an accusation, Cassandra bristles. "I am not unduly reckless."

"Perhaps you simply lack the imagination necessary to grasp what sort of political upheaval your absence would provide."

"I do not command that sort of power."

"The loss of another Divine, this soon after the unrest of recent years, might. Do I need to remind you how long it took to find a suitable candidate last time?"

Cassandra stubbornly pushes the flash of guilt away. The Exalted Council was as inevitable as it was regrettable, for all that she tried her best to stop it from happening at all. But the plain fact was that at the first sign of trouble at the Winter Palace, she felt rather more excited than what was proper. 

In truth, she all but ordered the Inquisitor to take her with, and thought nothing of consequences.

Sitting on the Sunburst Throne is a duty she would not cast aside, but donning armor and weapons for more than her regular sparring sessions is a joy she'd almost let herself forget, ever since she first let them dress her in Divine Justinia's vestments. 

One of these days she must commission new robes, ones that do not make her think she is face to face with Justinia again, every time she catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror. Perhaps robes with plate. And definitely more pockets.

Besides, if Vivienne has reservations, she might have brought them up before they set out. She did not.

"I cannot sit idly by for the rest of my life," Cassandra says. "It might be safer, but it would drive me out of my mind."

"I am aware, Most Holy."

"Besides, is it any better for the Grand Enchanter to risk herself?"

"I am in no danger, darling. I know how to take care of myself."

Only then does it occur to Cassandra to take stock of her appearance, realizing with a stab of guilt that she herself is not the only one to bear signs of the battle with the Qunari. Most of the blood on Vivienne's clothes is no doubt Cassandra's, but there is a cut on her lip, another above her eyebrow, and under her frown she looks weary to the bone.

Did one of the Qunari strike through her barrier? Did the explosion or the rocks hit her? Without thinking, Cassandra brings her hand up to touch Vivienne’s temple, feeling the dried blood underneath her fingertips.

"And what of this?"

Vivienne sighs, reaching up to catch Cassandra's hand in her own, firmly putting it back at her side. "It's nothing worth noting. Lie still now."

Magic gathering around Vivienne once more, Cassandra makes herself lie still and let herself be healed, keeping her body's instinctual reactions to magic on a tight leash. It is far from the first time Vivienne has healed her wounds, but perhaps it shall be the last. Perhaps this excursion is a last blessing from the Maker, before she must return to the path of her duty. She ought to treasure even the aches and pains as gifts, then.

The anger seems to have bled out of Vivienne, now that she has said her piece, and her hands, pressed against Cassandra's ribcage, seem almost tender, if such a thing were possible. One of her hands move lower, to rest on her hip, and though she is wearing heavy leather, Cassandra imagines she might feel the warmth of it.

Even in this battered state, her body betrays her.

It always was a special thing, to be allowed entry into Vivienne's private sphere. Sometimes, while they were still with the Inquisition, they would share a moment across a banked fire in the wilderness, or at Skyhold, when occasionally Vivienne would invite her to spar. In the Grand Cathedral, surrounded by people who knew her only as Divine Victoria, as they must, as she must learn to know herself as well, those moments of privacy were shifting to become even more precious.

It's a foolishly romantic notion.

Life has contrived to take her down a different path. The Maker chose for her and for all the obstacles this new life provides, it is a gift to serve. She has never taken any part of her duties lightly and she has never questioned that to be Divine means a life in isolation, but the rules of the Chantry were written by people, not by the Maker himself.

In a letter composed to Leliana, detailing some of the duller aspects of her new duties, she snuck in a question on the subject. Mortification sharply rising to her cheeks at the thought of it, she hoped the words did not stand out as clearly as they did in her mind's eye, where it seemed like every word was written in large, bright red letters, signaling all her most embarrassing wants and urges.

Leliana's reply was… trying. Lest her letter fall into the wrong hands, Cassandra burned it.

She asked Mother Giselle instead, phrasing herself in the sort of careful hypotheticals she does not particularly excel at, thinking she might rely on her to take the matter more seriously. 

"I am devoted to the Maker, Most Holy," she said, giving Cassandra an enigmatic smile. "I walk the path he sets out for me, but I am not fool enough to turn down the blessings he sees fit to bestow on me."

Was that supposed to answer the question? Cassandra eyed her suspiciously, turning her words every which way in trying to interpret them. Maker blast Chantry Sisters and their oblique ways of speaking. Do they all entertain secret love affairs or is she the only one to think such blasphemous thoughts?

It is useless anyway. There is no reason to think Vivienne would welcome such things. The time they've had together since she ascended to the Sunburst Throne has been spent on nothing but the dreary ins-and-outs of politics. Her visits were a necessity, and the gifts Cassandra received from Cumberland — seeds and seedlings for Divine Beatrix's garden, which she has vowed to preserve — were tokens of the new alliance between the Circle and the Chantry.

 _But_ , her mind supplies, every time these thoughts turn over and around in her head, sometimes it is almost as if she has a sway over her, however strange that may seem. 

Gaze lingering on Vivienne's face, the feeling of her magic turn Cassandra's head, makes her vision tilt and tumble. Even so, she can see the strain clearly now, in every tired line around her eyes. Putting her hand on Vivienne's arm, Cassandra interrupts her focus and the magic dissipates around her in fading wisps.

"Stop."

"Hush," Vivienne says so softly Cassandra wants nothing but to obey. The air vibrates around them as Vivienne gathers her focus to pull on the Fade once more.

"No more," Cassandra says. "I am healed enough."

This time, Vivienne allows herself to be stopped, nodding tiredly and wiping the back of her hand over her brow as she releases the grip on her magic.

"I am going to wash," Cassandra announces.

Maker knows she's always been considered stubborn and bull-headed, and despite Vivienne's somewhat skeptical look she manages to get to her feet. 

With an exasperated sigh, Vivienne stands with her, ever graceful despite her obvious fatigue.

"You should rest," Cassandra mutters, tries for stern but ends up mostly sounding breathless.

"I just spent a _significant_ amount of effort healing you. I don't intend to waste it watching you drown."

There is no reason for Vivienne to call her a stubborn fool since her tone says it so plainly for her.

Some of her armor and plate has already been removed, by Vivienne presumably, but Cassandra removes the rest of the heavy leather to clean in the morning, or whenever her strength has returned. She does not bother to remove the clothes underneath, blood-soaked as they are, and simply steps into the water half-clothed.

Vivienne does the same, stepping in with her, a firm grip around her waist. The elven ruins they searched through before were untouched by humans, shielded as they are by mountains that must be near impossible to scale. Cassandra cannot determine how high the valley is located, but the water of the lake is very cold when it seeps through her clothes.

"Down," Vivienne says when the water reaches their hips, pushing lightly at her shoulder.

Bending her legs, Cassandra dips her head under the water for a brief moment, soaking herself entirely. Straightening up again, she lets Vivienne peel her shirt off her shoulders, groaning at the painful stretch. Her breastband is summarily unraveled and discarded, Vivienne rubbing circles on her skin as she works. 

Cassandra is no stranger to stripping off her clothes in the presence of her fellow Seekers — has, in fact, more than once washed off dust and mud and blood with other members of the Inquisition, including Vivienne herself. Still, she cannot keep her mind from going where it should not, to those most private thoughts that have beset her for some undetermined time, thoughts of layers of layers of holy vestments being stripped away until no obstacles remain. She must avert her eyes, lest such ruminations spill out over her face. Looking out over the water, she fervently hopes the darkness hides her blush.

Blood and dirt dissolve in the water and the reflection of the moon makes it glow, as if the Maker himself reached down to touch it. The Inquisition is in trouble and she has failed to do anything at all of any use. The Inquisitor is unwell, and hiding it poorly, and instead of helping him, she is left behind, weak and injured. And she is _Divine_. That is more important than what nonsense her foolish heart wishes to indulge in.

Even turned away, she cannot help that her eyes are drawn to the shape of her in the moonlight. The water has crept up Vivienne's clothes, fabric clinging to her curves. The layers of her clothes must have hidden the tear down on her arm before, but her wet sleeve reveals a long gash from her elbow to her wrist. It does not look terribly deep, but when Cassandra reaches out to trace the line of torn fabric down her arm, Vivienne flinches with a hiss.

"Why have you not healed this?" Cassandra wonders, because everyone knows Vivienne would never be so impractical as to heal someone else before herself.

Vivienne holds her arm against herself, hand a fist to her chest. "There was a greater need."

"You worried for me."

"I wouldn't go that far." The expression on her face softens somewhat, and she adds, lower, "Losing another Divine would be... unacceptable."

If there is an implication there, Cassandra cannot decipher it. She is a fool to read meaning where there is none, but the world is different now than only a handful of years ago. A new balance, however tenuous, has risen out of the chaos, and Vivienne _must_ know that were Divine Victoria's reign to be cut short, the Chantry would recover much quicker than with the loss of Justinia.

Grasping Vivienne's hand, Cassandra runs a careful thumb over her fingers. "Thank you for healing me," she says, and because those words seem too fallow, she lifts her hand to her mouth, letting her lips slowly brush by each knuckle.

Vivienne makes no sound, and when Cassandra looks up, letting Vivienne's fingers slip out of her grasp, the look in her eyes impossible to interpret. Perhaps she is considering the most polite way of brushing her off, though that does not seem like the sort of thing Vivienne would care to be polite about.

"You need not restrain yourself, Your Holiness," Vivienne says when she finally deigns to speak, her cool and collected air belying the softness of her hand as she cups Cassandra's jaw.

Hand guiding Cassandra close, and closer yet, until she has but to shift forward to take the leap.

"Thank you," she says again, rather stupidly. It seems the best way of preventing herself from further foolish statements lies just inches away, but even such a small distance seems insurmountable. 

Fortunately, Vivienne takes pity on her, shifting forward to kiss her. 

It is not the first time she has been kissed, but that is how it seems to her, memories of previous experiences turned slippery. Too painful, perhaps, to remember them, tainted by grief and loss — a wound that has scabbed and scarred — and too precious to be compared. So her lips are clumsy and uncertain, but Vivienne leads, as is her wont in all things, slowly, warmly, until all of Cassandra is straining for more. Only when she recognizes the sharp iron taste of blood on her tongue does she pull back, remembering abruptly the cut on Vivienne's lip

Breathing hard, she is unraveled, untethered, and starkly aware of her bare chest. In contrast, Vivienne appears utterly calm when she reaches out to put her hand between her breasts, tapping her fingertips gently on her breastbone.

"From what I've gleaned," she says, "I thought your preference was for something appropriately courtly."

Just where she would have heard such a thing is unclear to Cassandra, and she flushes hotly at hearing her tastes laid out in front of her in someone else's words. No one would flinch to hear the likes of Vivienne or Josephine having preferences of that ilk, but such things are not reserved for someone like her, who trades in swings and blows.

"Yes," she admits, embarrassment growing along with the heat in her cheeks, "but if possible, I would like to be wooed — with haste."

Vivienne looks at her for a moment, and then she smiles, slowly, the lines at the corners of her lips deepening as something almost sly settles on her face. "There is something to be said for patience," she says. "I've enjoyed it, the past few years."

Staring at her smile, at the shape of her lips and the cut, split open against her mouth, Cassandra does very much wish she could be that sort of person. She has always been too impatient, too forceful, too angry, and with standards too high.

"I regret that I never learned that skill."

"In that case," Vivienne says, "do not dally on my account."

A great many things crosses Cassandra's mind at that. She has never yearned more for the sort of eloquence that will describe the inner workings of her heart, but as always, she falls short. Instead, she chooses action, leaning into Vivienne once more, finding the soft warmth of her embrace and the slippery heat of her mouth, needy and careless. 

Vivienne's clothes, despite their finery, are wet and rough against her bare skin, and she has goosebumps from the cold water but inside she is burning up. She is fire clothed in human skin, and never has she been more aware of the peaks and valleys of her body than when Vivienne's hands trail up her ribs to touch her breasts. The world spins and tilts, having been plucked from its usual place and put down somewhere new, somewhere slightly off-kilter. 

Heart pounding hard in her chest and in her ears, Cassandra pulls back again, head having caught up with her actions. "You must not — there will be no repercussions if you do not want this."

Vivienne, to Cassandra's very great mortification, _laughs_. "My dear, who do you take me for?"

Shame and embarrassment, familiar twins, make her take a step away in the water, but she has overestimated her own endurance and underestimated the strength of her vertigo. Her injuries weigh too heavily on her and she stumbles, leaning hard on Vivienne.

Dizzy and weak, she is led back to the shore, staying on her feet mostly through her Maker-given stubbornness, to blankets and a quickly arranged fire. 

Vivienne is all business again, and for a moment, Cassandra wonders if whatever happened in the water was nothing but a dream, wishful thinking brought on by her injuries. Perhaps she hit her head after all.

Reaching for Vivienne, the hand on the curve of her waist seem terrifyingly, enticingly intimate.

"You really ought to rest, Your Holiness," Vivienne says, but the timbre of her voice giving away the shallowness of her breath. She _wants_ , Cassandra can feel it all the way down to her bones.

"Perhaps you are the one who requires rest," Cassandra says, making it a challenge.

Vivienne does not rise to the bait. Probably because Cassandra cannot even manage to sit up, and most likely looks it. Instead, she leans in closer, her wet clothes cold against Cassandra's skin, making her shiver.

"Allow me to take care of you, darling," she says, inching closer still, until she is resting on Cassandra's arm, the length of her body pressed against her.

Her newly healed ribs, which Vivienne seems to have forgotten about in the heat of the moment, ache with the strain of it, but pain will not stop her. Neither will cowardice. Her hand, on Vivienne's waist, clenches and moves upwards, to where the laces of her bodice begin, nestled against the curves of her chest.

She has thought about it. Considered skin and how it might feel, where it would be soft and where it might be rough, where there certainly must be callouses, scars, and the places only those most trusted have put their hands before. 

With experienced ease, Vivienne unties the laces for her.

 _Patience_. Cassandra has never mastered it. Always too hot, too untempered, too quick to leap into action. In the light from the fire, Vivienne bares her shoulders and Cassandra, in a bid to keep herself in check, takes a deep, painful breath and steers her mind to duty.

"We never finished the conversation we started at the Winter Palace," she says.

Vivienne's hands hesitate on her corset and stop, and when Cassandra glances her way, she is looking back at her, one eyebrow delicately arched. "This is hardly the place or time for such discussions."

"On the contrary," Cassandra replies. "We are alone, and you cannot leave. It seems the perfect place."

The only change in Vivienne's composure is a small twitch of her lips. "I suppose you’d best seize the opportunity then."

"My advisors tell me," Cassandra says, "that it would be unwise for the Chantry to involve itself in the business of mages outside the Circle."

"Of course it would be, darling. I'm sure they prefer if the repercussions fall to me, leaving you spared."

"I have given you free reign of the Circles, because I know that is your preference, and because I trust you to make the right choices, more than anyone else."

Vivienne, of course, knows precisely what she means to ask. The Inquisition — whether it still stands or not when the Exalted Council is finished — is not enough to keep its erstwhile mage allies shielded, or to keep the newly formed College of Enchanters standing on its own.

"A show of strength is necessary," Vivienne says, unwavering, "to keep my position secure."

"There is no threat to your position. The Chantry is at your disposal." Hesitating, Cassandra adds, heat rushing to her cheeks once more, "As am I."

"You could not possibly understand the complexity of this issue."

She might well be right, but that does not mean that Cassandra is in the wrong. The cut on her arm looks worse with the sleeve peeled away, and Cassandra must suppress the urge to touch it again, to soothe it with her mouth. "I am willing to listen," she says.

"Divine Victoria, discussing politics while seducing the Grand Enchanter? There's hope for you yet, Your Perfection."

Her hands have returned to her laces, and there is a specific tone to her voice, a certain liquid warmth, as if she enjoys carrying on such discussions while half-dressed. It occurs to Cassandra that she probably does. Is that not the Orlesian way? To mingle intimacy and politics, in a way Cassandra has no experience with. She would have balked at such things once.

Vivienne is quiet for a little while as she rids herself of her corset, and perhaps Cassandra might be starting to see the appeal of these kinds of conversations.

"I do not agree with you," Vivienne says, "and I think it likely I will come to regret it in the future. But I will leave them be. For you, as a personal favor."

Cassandra does not think Vivienne grants many of those. It renders her speechless for a moment, and then Vivienne traces her fingers down her jaw, kissing her again, breasts cushioned against Cassandra's aching ribs. Somewhere close, a bird starts singing, high and clear, as if Cassandra is full of so many things it must spill out onto the world around her, into every rock and blade of grass, into the air where even the birds can sense it. 

Maker curse her foolish heart for indulging in such trite nonsense.

"Wait," she says, voice a soft whisper in the dark.

"Yes, darling? Do you want to confess that you have never been intimate with another woman before? _I know_. Do you want to tell me that you do not do this lightly? _I know_." 

"Actually," Cassandra says, breath high in her chest, "my arm is asleep."

Vivienne grows still for a moment, long enough that Cassandra wonders if she has misstepped over some invisible line, but then she shifts, off her arm, over her bruised ribcage, so much smooth skin pressed against her that the pain of it seems incidental. 

Her hand slides down over Cassandra's hip bone, to the lacing of her wet trousers. "I don't know how I could ever make it up to you, Most Holy."

There is less speaking after that.

**Author's Note:**

> _"Having clashed against the Circle, the College now found itself without support against the newly elected Grand Enchanter, Vivienne. Fortunately, Grand Enchanter Vivienne grudgingly agreed not to destroy its terrified leaders, as a personal favor to Divine Victoria."_


End file.
